Gifted in the Dark
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Anna and Elsa get each other birthday presents in their own ways.


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Frozen. This is one of my most favorite movies now. GAH. **

Anna touched the familiar wooden door, which was covered with cold. She drew her hand away and whispered, "Elsa?"

It was late at night. The castle seemed almost vacant, its hallways filled with blue shadows and delicate snowflakes falling. The curtains were scarcely drawn, showing the beautiful shadows of the crystal winter descending towards the ground. Anna held a candle in one hand, the light glow illuminating her way down the hall. Her mother would be worried because of her bare feet if she knew (she was always gently scolding Anna to keep warm—if she was cold, she was going to be bombarded by a maid and a bunch of coats). Her nightgown hung past her knees and her ginger hair was in two braids, the white streak weaved in the right one. And in her hand was a package. It was a tiny paper-covered box with a neat string wrapped around it. And atop it were little gifts she had made herself (with a little help from Greda).

Anna was maybe six-years-old, and her father wouldn't want her playing with fire. But she rarely listened to her parents like Elsa did. She sighed a little. Elsa was so good and perfect, her dear older sister. She wondered now what bad she had done to make such good Elsa not want to talk to her anymore. Or play with her.

Now she whispered, "Elsa? Are you in there?" She laughed a little to herself. She was a little scared of the dark, and the laugh was comforting. "Of course you are. That was silly." She leaned forward and brought the candle and her head down to the keyhole, and she saw nothing. Nothing at all. She backed up and sighed, and then she knelt down and began to arrange her little goodies.

"Let's see, guess what I brought, Elsa?" Anna asked cheerfully. Not too loud. She didn't want to wake up her parents, who lived a few rooms away. She turned to her goodies and placed the little package first a little off the door, to the left, so when Elsa opened it, she wouldn't smash it away. "First, there is a little package that took me forever to wrap. I made so many knots!" Next to this was a little white China saucer, and on it was a stack of white frosted sugar cakes. "I made some cakes with the cook today. They're chocolate and covered in sugar icing. And—and I made marzipan decorations with a metal cutter shaped like a snowflake." Anna put her hands on her hips and looked proud of herself. Then she set atop the package a little bouquet of white flowers. They were a little wilted and dead looking, for the season had long passed, but she was proud of them. "And then a bouquet of flowers. I think I saw them in a picture in the ballroom. Mama put a picture up there. There's so much room. Think they'll put up more, Elsa?"

There was no answer. There was never a real answer from Elsa. Only the occasional plea for her to leave. And Anna sighed a little and sank back against the door. Her fat little hands clasped in her lap, and she looked at them as she said, "Happy birthday, Elsa. Nine is a really, really big age."

She stood up and knocked on the door once more. Then she bobbed and picked up her candle. "Good night, Elsa. Happy birthday." She smiled a little bit, but it faded all too quickly as she carefully wrapped a hand a little about the candle and padded her way down the hallway, her teeth chattering, leaving her wondering where she could find her slippers.

The glow passed away. The wooden door cracked open, revealing a snow-white head and delicate hands. The princess, now nine-years-old past that midnight, looked and saw the snow passing past the window across from her. She winced and then knelt, making the door creak open a little. She smiled at the little gifts offered by her little sister, and took great care in balancing them on her gloves.

The door was quickly closed. The bouquet was placed delicately into a vase of water Elsa dared not touch. The last time she had she had iced over the water and killed the flowers. Winter killed spring. In a way, it reminded her of Anna. Anna was spring and she was winter, and she couldn't—wouldn't kill spring.

She sat on her blue-covered bed and ate each cake with grace, but then she sighed happily and laid on her back as she ate the chocolate cake. Anna knew her so well. And she stared up at the ceiling once she was done, a gloved finger itching at the palm of her other hand. She wondered if Anna would know her so well now in ten years' time. Would they even talk to each other, acknowledge each other's presence? Or would they grow so far apart it would seem strange to even count bright, bouncy Anna as her little sister? Elsa pressed her lips together and shook her head, sighing.

If only she was able to control it. She had a chance, she knew. She could do this. She wanted to so badly. But . . . what if she couldn't? What if she was doomed to a life of solitude, away from her family and friends, and . . . especially her little sister?

She pressed her eyes shut and shook her head fiercely, almost in denial. Not dear Anna. But . . . she didn't want to hurt her. She felt the most guilty about Anna. Nobody else had been hurt because she could create snow at the wave of a hand. But Anna . . . she could have died . . . she had hurt her . . . and Anna couldn't remember it. But even if she could, she would have readily forgiven Elsa. But Elsa never forgave herself. She would always remember, and she would always remember so that she could try harder.

Try harder. Do well. Try harder. Please her father. Control her powers. Protect Anna.

Her hands splayed out over the covers. A delicate finger touched the brown package, and her fingers wrapped around it. Elsa sat up and contemplated the little box for a moment, and then she opened it. And the gift was two little gloves. They were obviously sewn by Anna, with poor big stitches; Elsa could hardly believe they had made it past their governess, Gleda's, inspection.

She carefully took off her blue gloves and slipped the new ones on. They fit, though, like a glove. Elsa smiled sadly to herself and whispered to her hands, to the little hand-sewn creations surrounding her, "Thank you, Anna."

The crown princess's birthday was a quiet one that year, as were the ones to come. The only ones there were the royal family and the staff. Even then, Elsa sped back into her room after a shaky dinner, during which Anna, excited that her sister was out, tried to be silly and tell jokes. This only got food everywhere and a scolding from her father. But that wasn't what dampened Anna's spirits. She looked longingly towards the door that Elsa left through as her father's voice went through one ear and out the other.

The princesses' birthdays became quieter and quieter each year. As she grew older, Anna wanted nothing more than a ball for her birthday. But her parents said no. She didn't like it, but she spent a lot of her time outside Elsa's door, holding a new doll and asking her to play or wearing a new dress, spinning in it, and asking Elsa if she could impart her opinion on it.

But there was nothing. Nothing.

Except one thing.

Elsa knew exactly what she could give Anna for her birthday, but as Anna was born in late spring, it was so mightily peculiar to have snow then than that she didn't do anything. She wanted to raise suspicion as little as possible. But every time in winter she heard Anna leaning against her door and rambling about the same old things, like how the snow was melting that afternoon and it was all drudgy, Elsa would hurry to her window, watch out worriedly for anyone looking, and then spring her hands out and create a blustery, beautiful snowfall. Then she would race to the door and press her ear against it, and she'd grin when she heard Anna jump up and bounce to the window. "Elsa, Elsa, look at that snow!" She would then say quietly, "Want to go out with me?"

"I'm fine, Anna. You go enjoy yourself," Elsa would always say. This was said sadly, but with a tiny smile.

Eventually, after much hesitation and begging, Anna would hurry to fetch her hood and mittens. Elsa would then cross over to the window and watch her little sister play in the snow, and always, in the corner, would she produce a snowman that they both knew well. Olaf. She smiled to herself, but felt sad inside. Warm and cold and sad and happy all at once. How was it possible to feel all at once?

And that was the two of them. Warm and cold and sad and happy and generous and hoping against all hopes to stay with their sister, especially concerning their birthdays. They had that, even if they didn't necessarily have each other.

**Thanks for reading! :)**


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